


We Walk Blind And We Try To See

by Cohens_Girl



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Robbie Worrying For No Reason, literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:18:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's raining, when Lewis first opens his eyes; a soft drumming against window-glass, steady and rhythmic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Walk Blind And We Try To See

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The usual. Don't own, not claiming to own. Please don't sue.
> 
> I've been an Inspector Lewis LJ lurker for a very long time; and I love the fics on there and on here so much, I can't even begin to tell you. I don't think there is a fandom with more talented writers. I always wanted to contribute something, but all my ideas were so specific, I just ended up with writers block and gave up before I began. This is the result of writing with no aim at all, and I know it isn't much, but it was a joy to write all the same.
> 
> And yeah, I love England; its probably obvious. I love its shitty weather, its big black clouds and its windy-arsed beaches and the days where there's never quite any sun, because to me, that's home. It's beautiful.

It's raining, when Lewis first opens his eyes; a soft drumming against window-glass, steady and rhythmic.

 

It lulls him back into a doze. Sunday-rain, the very best kind : the kind you can wake and then sleep to. It is only when he rolls onto his side to reach for the warm skin that should be there, the expanse of living, breathing flesh that he has finally grown re-accustomed to discovering in his bed of a morning and finds it _gone_ that Lewis truly wakes.

 

His bed is half-empty; no James sweetly sleeping, fair eyelashes fluttering and small, careful smile curling up the corners of his mouth. There is no sun-gilded profile, long limbs strong and straight-edged like an Etruscan statue, leaning out the window, cigarette in hand; no quiet, lived-in sounds of puttering in his kitchen. Just stillness, and silence.

 

An uncomfortable feeling somewhere between disappointment and resignation settles liked lead in Lewis' belly.

 

It is still new, this thing between them : still terrifying. James could still run. Everyday they are negotiating new ground, and, sometimes, Lewis still feels like he is pigeon-stepping across frozen ice and waiting for it to crack. He believes that this can work, of course, that they are _good_ together - but there can be no certainties. He knows that there were no promises made for a reason.

 

Jim sees the world through a different lens, one that is coloured by what Robbie - rather charitably - labels as _ill-treatment_ and reading too many books with long bloody words in them. He accepts kindness without ever expecting more to follow and it breaks Robbie's heart, to think that people have hurt the lad so many times over the years that he has simply come to expect it. Worse, it is all he knows. It doesn't matter how many times Robbie says _in for the long haul –_ it doesn't translate. James will blink and nod and raise his eyebrows like Lewis is offering to give him a lecture on the Orthodox Christianity of the Byzantine Empire.

 

Except he'd probably understand _that_ a damn sight better, wouldn't he?

 

It makes things...well, not difficult, exactly, but complicated. For James, the big issues like age and work and family, the cornerstones of Robbie's own life, are of equal import to the littler things : the odd habits and human idiosyncrasies that define a person, like...like what time to eat and what to put on the telly. It can be a blessing and a curse. Case in point; the fact that Robbie is old enough to be his dad is apparently not a problem but it could easily be the temperature of the room or the acoustics of the rain or just the sound of Robbie's snoring that have caused him to bolt. Not that the lad is highly strung, not in the least, just – skittish. Pensive. Quick to assume the worst.

 

Ah, but there's no point in trying to guess what the matter is; slippers on first, kettle on second. Being a detective, at work or home, comes in at a firm third on a Sunday morning.

 

Would be fourth, if Jim was still in bed, but that's another matter altogether.

 

Stepping into the front room, however, is like a revelation; the flint grey half-light of an autumn Oxford morning is casting sleepy shadows across the room, bleak and hushed and fragile - and there James is, sprawled on the sofa in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, blissfully oblivious to everything but the book in his hands.

 

There is no sight more bewitching, not for Robbie. The carelessness of it, the untidy limbs, the lithe bare chest and sock-less feet, speaks of a trust that he never could have hoped to gain. Jim...he looks so _comfortable._

 

Robbie swallows, tries to find something to say. What does he say to this?

 

“You're up early.”

 

He worries, for a moment, that the words have come out more accusatory than he means them to but when the younger man twists round to catch his gaze, he only smiles a slow, languid smile – a smile that says the thought of running never once entered his marvellous mind, that they have all the time in the world - murmurs,

 

“I didn't want to wake you.”

 

Awash with relief, but determined not to show it, Lewis asks only,

 

“What's this then?” indicating the worn book held delicately between James' fingers.

 

Slowly, the hint of a blush high on his cheeks and looking as though he is revealing a guilty secret, James holds the book closed to display the cover. Verdant fields and the title _Watership Down_ stare back at Lewis, and he can't help the smile that steals over his face.

 

As if the daft sod has anything to be ashamed of; it just makes him love the lad even more. Who knew James had a weakness for rabbits, eh?

 

And that's it: no big epiphany, no sudden, electric sensation as though he has been struck by a lightning bolt, no oh-my-god moment of heart-stopping clarity. Not something he needs to question, no whens or whys or hows, not something he has to fight or analyse, or even really acknowledge.

 

Love.

 

No fanfare, no ceremony, just a quiet continuation of something that simply _is._ It is not a surprise; it's just James with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a worn book in his hands and it feels warm, and simple, and right.

 

“Aye,” He says, gently, voice carrying just above the thrum of the rain. “Now that's a real classic, that is. None o'this – Greek or Latin business.”

 

James smiles indulgently back at him, looking awfully young, and so very beautiful.

 

And he could say it, of course; _I love you._ It wouldn't be hard. He's not a jittery teenager, for God's sake, and he believes with all that he is that, whether or not he recognises it or is willing to admit it, James loves him back. Hell, just thinking of saying it makes his stomach flutter in that uniquely excruciating, wonderful way that he thought he would never feel again - but -

 

But this is still new, and James could still run, and Robbie isn't going to push. He'll feel when James is ready, the same way he always has. For now it is enough to rub his thumb over the nape of his Jim's neck, all silky smooth skin and fine hair; it is enough to kiss him to the soundtrack of the dismal British weather and ask against his lips,

 

“Tea or coffee, pet?”

 

And to have James, flush-cheeked and bright-eyed, murmur back,

 

“I'd rather just have you, if it's all the same.”

 

Maybe it isn't 'I love you', but Lewis still hears the trust and desire and need behind the words, all coloured with guarded hope and awkward vulnerability. Their lips meet again, hungry but unhurried, and Robbie smiles against James' mouth and thinks, yeah – something that just _is._

 


End file.
